Page 20 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

SOFIA

E xhaustion pulls at my eyelids.

We’ve been driving for four hours straight, switching between back roads and interstate, constantly checking mirrors for signs of pursuit.

My hands ache from gripping the steering wheel, and my neck feels like it’s been twisted into knots.

Beside me, Dante drifts in and out of consciousness, his breathing shallow and labored.

The makeshift bandage I tore from my slip and pressed against the bullet graze on his left side is soaked through again, dark red seeping through the white silk.

Every time I glance over, my heart clenches with fresh worry.

“We need to stop,” I finally say, though the words feel like admitting defeat. “You need medical attention.”

“Keep driving,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “Just a little further.”

But I can see the pale sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he grunts with each breath.

He’s losing too much blood, and I’m too exhausted to drive safely much longer.

The neon sign appears like a beacon in the darkness. “Sunrise Motel—Hourly & Weekly Rates—Cable TV.”

It’s the kind of place that asks no questions and keeps no records, perfect for people who need to disappear.

The parking lot is mostly empty except for a few beat-up cars and a semi-truck with out-of-state plates.

I pull into a spot as far from the road as possible, hidden behind the truck. “Wait here,” I tell Dante, though he’s barely conscious anyway.

The night clerk is exactly what I expected—middle-aged and bored.

He’s got the pale, doughy look of someone who’s spent too many nights under fluorescent lights, and he barely glances up from his magazine when I approach.

“Room for the night,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He starts to reach for a registration form, then actually looks at me for the first time.

His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance—torn dress, blood on my hands and wild hair.

Something predatory flickers across his face.

“Well now,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “Rough night, sweetheart? You look like you could use some…assistance.”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl, his gaze sliding down my body with obvious appreciation for my disheveled state.

After everything that’s happened, I don’t have time for his bullshit.

“Just a room,” I repeat firmly.

“Sure, sure.” His smile reveals teeth stained yellow from cigarettes and coffee. “But maybe you’d like some company? I get lonely during these long shifts, and a pretty little thing like you?—”

“Listen,” I interrupt, my voice shaking slightly before I force it steady, “I need a fucking room. You need…you need money. That’s all this is. Are we clear?”

His smile falters at the bite in my voice, but he recovers quickly with a sneer. “Feisty. I like that. But honey, looking like you do—all beat up and desperate—you’re not exactly in a position to be picky about?—”

“Room. Now .” I slam two hundred dollars on the counter, enough to shut him up and make him forget any inconvenient details. “The one furthest from the office.”

He stares at the money for a moment, then at my face, clearly recognizing something in my expression that makes him think twice about pushing further.

With a muttered curse that sounds like “rich bitch,” he slides a key across the counter.

No ID required for the room at the far end, away from the office.

The key is attached to a plastic tag shaped like a palm tree, ironic given the industrial wasteland surrounding us.

“Room twelve,” he grumbles, already turning back to his magazine. “Ice machine’s broken, vending machine takes exact change only.”

I pocket the key without another word, relief making my knees weak.

Dante needs medical attention, and every second we spend exposed increases our risk of being found.

Getting Dante from the car to the room is harder than I anticipated.

He’s deadweight against my shoulder, his feet dragging as I half-carry him across the cracked asphalt.

By the time I get the door open, my own legs are shaking from exhaustion.

The motel room smells of cheap bleach and cigarettes, with an underlying staleness that speaks of thousands of temporary occupants.

Yellow water stains mar the ceiling like abstract art, and the neon sign outside casts intermittent red shadows through thin curtains that have seen better decades.

The carpet is worn thin in a path from door to bathroom, and the bedspread looks like it hasn’t been changed since the eighties.

But it’s the first time we’ve stopped running in hours, and my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand.

The adrenaline that kept me going through the auction, the escape, the chase—it’s all finally wearing off, leaving me hollow and trembling.

“Sit,” Dante orders, though his voice is weak as he drops our meager supplies on the scratched dresser.

We managed to grab a first aid kit from Vincent’s car, along with some water and energy bars.

Not much, but better than nothing.

“You first,” I counter, eyeing the blood-soaked silk pressed against his side. “That needs proper cleaning.”

“Sofia—” He starts, but I can see the exhaustion in every line of his body.

“Don’t argue with me.” My voice cracks on the last word, all my fear and frustration finally spilling over. “Please. I need…I need to do something useful.”

Understanding softens his expression.

He’s seen this before, I realize—the need to help, to fix, to do something concrete when everything else feels out of control.

He sits on the bed’s edge, carefully shrugging off what’s left of his ruined jacket.

The shirt beneath is stiff with dried blood, both his and probably some from the guards we fought.

My hands only shake a little as I help him unbutton it, revealing each inch of exposed skin.

The bullet graze along his ribs is angry and inflamed, but it’s the other injuries that make me suck in a sharp breath.

New bruises bloom across his chest and back—purple and black marks from being slammed into walls, from diving behind cover, from taking hits meant for me.

Old scars tell stories I’ve never heard—a puckered mark near his shoulder that looks like a knife wound, a long, thin line across his abdomen that speaks of surgery or violence or both.

When the shirt falls away completely, I have to bite my lip to stay focused on the medical necessities and not on the way the motel’s dim lighting plays across the planes of his chest, highlighting every ridge of muscle.

“Not as bad as it looks,” he says softly, noticing my reaction.

“Liar.” But I’m grateful for his attempt at comfort as I wet a washcloth in the tiny bathroom sink.

The water runs rusty for a moment before clearing, and I make a mental note to stick to bottled water for drinking.

I clean the wound as gently as possible, but his muscles still tense under my fingers with each pass of the cloth. I tell myself it’s from pain, not from my touch.

Not from the way my breath hitches every time he shifts, every time his skin warms under my fingertips.

“You did good tonight,” he says quietly. “Better than good. You were magnificent.”

I pause my cleaning, looking up to meet his eyes. “I was terrified.”

“Brave people usually are. It’s what you do with the fear that matters.” His hand covers mine briefly. “Your brother would be proud.”

The mention of Marco makes my chest tight. “Will we ever see them again? Marco, my parents?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in his voice, no doubt. “This isn’t permanent, Sofia. We’re not running away—we’re going dark long enough to plan our counterattack.”

I finish bandaging him with supplies from the first aid kit, the medical tape stark white against his olive skin.

My movements are careful, but I’m acutely aware of every place our skin touches, every breath that lifts his chest.

“Your turn,” he says when I finish.

Before I can protest, his hands are gently examining the cut on my temple, the bruises on my arms from being grabbed and dragged.

“I’m fine,” I try to say, but the words stick in my throat as his fingers trail down my neck, checking for injury with the thoroughness of someone who’s seen too many hidden wounds.

“You’re in shock,” he corrects, his touch clinical but somehow intimate. “And you have glass in your hair.”

His fingers work carefully through the strands, removing tiny shards from the explosion at the auction house.

Each gentle tug sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

I want to make a joke about impromptu haircuts, but suddenly all I can see is Maisie crumpling to the ground.

All I can hear is that final gunshot, the sound that ended a life and changed everything.

“Hey.” Dante’s hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears. “Stay with me, principessa .”

The old nickname hits differently now. Not patronizing or diminutive, but tender. Protective.

“She died helping us.” The words tumble out like a confession. “If I hadn’t encouraged her to fight back?—”

“Then Viktor would have killed her anyway, but without giving the others a chance to escape.” His voice is firm but gentle, cutting through my spiral of guilt. “She chose to be brave. She chose to stand up. Like you taught her to be.”

“She was supposed to go home to her family,” I whisper. “She was supposed to dance again, to live, to?—”

A sob catches in my throat, and Dante pulls me against his chest without hesitation.

I finally let myself break, let myself feel everything I’ve been holding back since the auction.

The grief for Maisie, the terror of almost losing Dante, the rage at Viktor and everyone who thinks they can buy and sell human lives.

His heartbeat is steady under my ear, solid and real and alive.

His hands stroke my back in slow, soothing circles while I cry for my friend, for the innocence we’ve all lost, for the girl I was before tonight.

I don’t know how long we stay like this.

Long enough for my tears to dry and for the trembling in my hands to stop.